


Love is for Children

by firetoflame



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:22:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6573346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firetoflame/pseuds/firetoflame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Nat have a baby and retire to small town suburbia … well, that is, until their past comes crawling back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is for Children

 

The school gym is packed to the seams, bursting with rolling video cameras and cell phone snaps as the lights dim on the little wooden stage.

There’s a few moments of technical difficulty as the teacher battles the ancient stereo system with nothing but a frown and a firm fist bump, then the walls swell with the high pitched, cheery echo of children's theater.

There’s neck craning and murmured whispers from the crowd and Natasha has the urge to jump out of her seat, if only so she doesn’t miss a single second, but Clint folds his hand over her knee without looking at her, and somehow that touch—the warm and gentle clasp of his hand—is enough and she settles back in her chair, letting out a long breath.

Clint’s always been better at this. Waiting. Fighting the tight bubble of anticipation. It’s the sniper in him, she thinks. That keen-eyed patience has seen them through more than their share of missions over the years. Bet he never thought he’d be using those skills at an elementary school play.

The corner of Clint’s lips quirk up, almost like he’s read her mind; and maybe he has. They’ve always been good at that. Even after years of being out of the field, he’s still the only one who can read her as well as he does. The only one who can see inside the dark places of her mind that she sometimes gets tangled up in. It’s less often now; less now that the hardest things they face are the rising gas prices and the wrath of a little girl who doesn’t want to eat her vegetables.

Oh, yes. The stubbornness is strong with that one. Almost as bad as her father and his blatant refusal to go to the doctors after he was told that his blood pressure needed closer monitoring.

_Superheroes don’t have high blood pressure, he’d told her._

_You’re not a superhero anymore. You're just a dad who needs a regular physical, she’d said._

He’d glowered and she’d let it go. God forbid Hawkeye need regular medication.

Natasha will deal with that later though (even if she has to slip it in his food). Right now the music crescendos and it only takes a moment for Natasha to spot her. Rosie makes her way to the middle of the stage, a beaming sort of smile on her face as she dances on her tiptoes, drawing giggles from the crowd.

Natasha watches and laughs and gasps, despite the fact she’s heard it all before. Despite having watched every one of the impromptu rehearsals in their living room for the past seven weeks before bed.

Clint plays with the zoom on his phone, zeroing in. The screen shakes with his laughter.

"Oh, Nat, she's wonderful," Shelly Wilkes says as she leans across her seat to whisper in Natasha’s ear. She's got a little boy Rosie's age. They've been in the same class for two years now and Natasha likes them. Single mom. Cute kid. He’s even got some manners.

There are more chuckles from the audience and Rosie beams because she excels like this. In the spotlight. And she's happy.

"What a ham," Clint murmurs fondly, a proud smile on his face as Rosie goes scampering back across the stage, hands on her hips. “Wonder who she got that from?” he quips.

Natasha laughs along with the other parents and it’s a good feeling. One that reminds her it had all been worth it. Everything. Just to get here, for this moment, and all the fleeting ones in between . . .

The doctors in the Red Room had told her it would be impossible. To get pregnant. To carry to term. Not after the sterilization.

SHIELD had told her it wasn't likely. The Red Room wasn’t exactly thorough, but they’d done enough damage. It’s what they assured her. What they wrote in her file.

But with the right amount of time and money . . . and hope. Well, medicine does wonders, she thinks. And some part of her thinks she always wanted normal. Wanted so bad to have what she never got growing up.

So that's exactly what they had done—her and Clint. They watched SHIELD fall and put to rest their lies and aliases and secrets. Laid down their weapons and hung up their suits.

It's not quite white picket fence (she didn't go that far), but there was a garden and a van and a little girl with blonde hair and green eyes. Green like the Maine springs, fresh and new and everything good about the world.

And everything that’s come after SHIELD had been to keep this little girl safe. Every carefully concocted story, every forged document, every misleading trail. Natasha’s made sure. Protected her right down to the very biology in her veins, some deeper, more intricate part of herself giving way, not to glowing red hair and a sharp smile, but a honey blonde, flannel wearing firecracker with a sweet smile and her daddy's round cheeks.  A typical American little girl. There is nothing cold about her. She does not bleed Russian blood. She bears little resemblance to Natasha, despite what Clint insists (but maybe that's because he knows them best) and for that she's grateful. It's one more thing she can do to keep her safe.

And she marvels at her every day. She has for seven years now.

At her smiles and curiosity and the warm way her hands, so small and fragile, reach up to squeeze hers, to grab her attention with bright eyes.

And every time Natasha still wonders how she—how something born and bred on blood—could be responsible for bringing into this world something so pure. Something purely good. Untouched. Maybe . . . maybe this was her atonement. Her second chance. Ledger clearing. To raise this child without violence or fear.

Clint had always wanted this. She knew that. He'd wanted a family, but he'd wanted her more, so it hadn't happened right away. Not even in the most conventional of ways. But he'd been ready. Wrecked with excitement when they found out. Natasha had never let herself hope, even when that little test strip came back positive.

Hope was a danger in their line of work. It bred weakness.

Now though, this little girl is her everything. Her strength and resolve and the reason for every hard choice, every careful measure she's taken to concoct a world where she isn't a former assassin, but just a mom. _Momma_ , really. Because some habits are hard to break, even at seven.

The lights in the gym flicker to life and the row of second graders take their bows, Rosie standing near the middle of the line, fairy wings flapping with her excitement.

Clint and Nat are on their feet first, clapping and whistling, just to make sure she hears them. She does, giving them a wave before taking a final bow.

**. . .**

They pull out of the back of the parking lot, maneuvering around groups of parents herding kids back home for the night.

"You were very good," Clint tells Rosie, eyes flicking up to see her in the rearview.

Natasha knows he watches that mirror more than he watches the road but of all the things she’s ever been concerned about, Clint’s driving isn’t one of them.

"Daddy, can we get ice cream now?"

Clint laughs, taking a right onto the main thoroughfare through town. "I did promise you that, didn't I?"

Natasha twists her lips in that way that says this was not discussed with her and Clint's eyes flicker with mirth. "I think it's up to mommy though, peanut."

"Momma, pleeeease," comes the tiny whine and Natasha's never been good at saying no, maybe even worse than Clint. She just hides it better. Hides it with _we’ll see_ and _maybe later_ and with conditions that only existed because she knows if she doesn’t make them she’ll give this little girl the world—everything she never had—and it’ll smother her. She does it to keep herself restrained.

With a forced sigh she turns to look over her shoulder, greeted with the expected pouty lip and batting blue eyes. God, Clint did that to her too. "Well, you did eat your dinner," she concedes. Daddy and daughter both cheer.

Rosie's asleep before they get to the ice cream parlor—exhaustion, fumes of adrenaline, and a moving car making for a good sedative—so they order her favourite and take it home to freeze.

"Think she'll be mad if we don't wake her up to eat it tonight?" Clint asks, turning up the long, winding laneway to their house.

Natasha hums. "I think she'll be grumpy if we do, then you can reason with a seven year old who no longer wants to go to bed."

"Touche, momma."

The breath of air stalls in her lungs and Natasha fights the swell of emotion in her chest. It squeezes her heart when he says those things because of all the titles she's carried over the years that's one she never thought would fit.

They pull up to the house. A hilltop aside the ocean. Far enough away from town but not so far that people are missed.

It's a rough around the edges kind of property, but homey inside. It keeps Clint busy and he's put a lot of love and labour into the rooms they move through and the floors they walk. Despite her teasing him that his projects will never be finished, it's her little piece of perfect. And she wouldn't change it for anything.

. . .

Clint climbs out of the van and leaves Natasha to manage the ice cream.

He rolls the rear door open and, unsurprisingly, Rosie doesn’t stir. She sleeps like the dead, this one, and Clint wonders where she got that from because it’s definitely not from her parents. Though maybe it’s a life of bullets and knives that keep them from dreaming to deeply. Even after all these years.

Clint unbuckles the seatbelt and unravels the fairy wing costume from her hands. Natasha appears behind him, a hand pressed against his shoulder, so he hands it off to her before grabbing Rosie.

She's a string bean, like he was at seven—all limb and nothing to her. She's still small enough to fit against his chest, so he carries her, one arm hiked under her legs as her limbs do the typical kid thing and octopus around him. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love that feeling.

Rosie gives a disgruntled kind of sigh against his neck when he closes the van door and Clint chuckles.

Despite Natasha’s protests, Rosie’s more like her mom than she admits. She's definitely got her balance and poise, and maybe that’s because she dances. Of course she dances and Natasha's secretly thrilled. Of all the things the Red Room forced upon her, ballet was always something she marveled at. Sweet and innocent and full of childlike wonder. The edge of a fairy tale. Clint can see it at every recital. Every silent gasp that begins and ends a plie.

Yeah, Rosie may look like him, but she's definitely got Natasha's mannerisms. Observant. A wicked sense of humor. Sneaky quiet.

He hugs her to his chest as they navigate the stairs to her bedroom. It’s a quick tuck-in tonight because she’s already asleep, so he presses a kiss to her forehead and whispers into her ear the same way he does every night. Natasha stays longer, running light fingers through her hair and whispering promises the same way she’s done since Rosie was a baby.

The same way she’ll do until they’re both old and grey and forget who they are.

“C’mon momma,” he says when she closes the door and folds herself into his arms. “I’ll make you tea.”

“Russian tea?”

He laughs and when they get to the kitchen, still wrapped around each other, he unearths the vodka from the back of the cupboard. And the way Natasha smiles at him after a couple glasses makes his blood run hot, heating his skin from the inside out. “You want another?” he asks.

She shakes her head, leaning across the table to kiss him, hot and open-mouthed and needy. It’s the kind of kiss that ends in the bedroom and Clint wastes no time getting them there.

They forget the ice cream on the counter overnight and Clint spends the morning getting a lecture from a very stern seven year old. He makes his resting face and nods, pursing his lips every time she starts up again. Natasha snickers into her shirt sleeves during the entire ride to school which Clint thinks is unfair since it was her distraction that caused this mess in the first place.

They drop Rosie off in front of the school and Clint has to promise her an ice cream date to get his goodbye kiss. Yep, she’s definitely inherited her momma’s ability to manipulate.

Natasha’s still laughing about it when they head home.

. . .

Clint picks her up from school and with Natasha’s approval, they go for ice cream before dinner, just daddy and daughter.

There’s lasagna in the oven and garlic bread heating on the top of the stove when they get home and Natasha braces herself against the counter seconds before the jarring thud of spindly arms as they wrap around her legs from behind. She’s secretly dreading the day Rosie no longer rushes to her the moment she’s home.

“Momma, guess what!”

And so begins the hour-long run down of her day.

Natasha nods and hums in all the right places, dissecting pieces of her daughters day, filing away dates and names and questionable things for later (three scoops, really Clint?). She leads her over to the table, shuffling around the dinner plates enough to help her unpack her school bag.

“And daddy stopped the van and the lady let me pet her dog!”

“Oh really?”

“Uh, huh. And then it licked daddy’s face but he wasn’t mad because it was a nice dog.”

Rosie tips her agenda bag and a day’s worth of papers unfold across the table in a rainbow of dog eared files. Natasha grins at the running commentary as she sifts through them. There's her bright yellow spelling journal and the new books she's picked out to practice reading this week. Notes from the school about a bake sale and pizza lunch order forms. There's also two new files with . . .

Natasha gasps, hand flying up to her mouth, holding in the hot gush of air that settles in her throat and makes her nauseous.

"What is it?" Rosie asks, climbing up on her knees to peer at the files.

Natasha snatches them from the table and clutches them to her chest on instinct, a swell of protective energy blossoming in her chest. It's that same swell that forces a reassuring smile onto her face as she bends and runs her hand along her daughter's cheek. "Nothing, baby. Go wash up for dinner. And send your daddy down for me, okay?"

“Okay, Momma,” she chirps before scrambling off the chair and dashing away.

Natasha can hear Clint intercept her on the stairs and there’s squealing and giggling and far too much puddling in the water. She can’t be bothered with that right now though because there’s a terrible ache in her chest and bile bubbling at her throat. “Bozhe moi.”

. . .

It’s after Rosie has gone to bed that Clint and Nat get their first good look at the files.

They break out the vodka again.

It’s a familiar site. The beige, weighted works of a lifetime of undercover operations. Field notes. Tactics. Credentials and fuzzy coloured photos from their SHIELD days.

Only this time in both their photos their eyes are etched out with red ink. A warning of things to come. "Well there's an image I didn’t need tonight,” Clint mutters pushing his file across the table.

"I think they've made their point," Natasha agrees, closing the page on her own past.

"I can’t believe they were close enough to her to slip these in her bag,” Clint says downing his glass. The words come out as a growl infused with alcohol.

Nat just nods and tops up her glass. "Someone's found us."

"Who?"

"The files are translated from Russian."

"Red Room?” Clint ventures.

Natasha shrugs. "Or Hydra?"

Clint squeezes his glass and for a moment Natasha’s afraid it’ll shatter. Then he pushes that away too and says, "We have to call it in."

 Natasha looks blankly from him to her phone. After a long moment she picks it up and dials from memory. “ . . . Steve?"

. . .

Clint spends the next day parked outside Rosie’s school. They’re trying to keep things normal for her (as normal as they can make it when someone’s put a hit out on her parents).

Natasha spends the day pouring over files Steve faxed over from the tower. They’ve missed a lot in their time away and she’s unsurprised to find that some of their old _friends_ have resurfaced again. Whether or not they’re the one’s behind the threat is a different story. She needs to keep digging.

It’s seventeen minutes past when Clint usually gets home with Rosie and Natasha gets antsy about it. So bad in fact that she actually jumps when her phone rings.

She snatches it off the table and is greeted by a too cheery Clint.

"Hello, momma. Can you do me a favour and open the garage? We're parking in there tonight."

"Got a tail?" she asks, voice tight and serious as she peeks through the curtains at the front of the house.

"You bet," he says, tone light. She can hear the smile in his voice. Again for Rosie’s benefit.

When they get inside Rosie makes for the kitchen but Clint snags her by the strap on her backpack, effectively lifting her off the ground. “Let’s eat in the den tonight, peanut.”

There’s no windows in there, Nat thinks.

Clint plops her down on the couch and flicks on a movie. “I’ll make dinner. You get started on your homework.”

He closes the double doors once Rosie’s been occupied by the TV.

“Bad?” Natasha asks him, arms crossed tight against her chest.

He reaches out and runs his hands up her arms, grounding them both.

“It was just one. Maybe two. But that’s all I could see.” He presses a kiss to her forehead before turning on his heel, heading for the dining room.

"Where are you going?" she asks, following him.

Clint reaches up into the old, stone fireplace that covers the back wall, pulling out a sniper rifle.

"I didn't even know you still kept that there?" she says.

"Neither did I. Thought you might have moved it by now." He blows the dust off it. "I'm heading up to the roof. Need a good perch to see if we have any visitors. Keep Rosie away from the downstairs windows."

Natasha spends the night in the den, ears perked and a sick chill slipping down her spine with every creek in the house. Eventually Rosie gets sleepy and when her head lulls against Natasha’s thighs she slips her arms around her daughter and carries her upstairs, moving in the darkness so as not to draw attention.

She puts Rosie to bed, pulling the covers up and arranging her stuffies just the way she likes them. She clings to these moments of normal.

When she slips back into the hall, it’s only to the sudden sound of boots.

"Clint?" she calls.

The thud draws closer and she lets out a panicked breath when he whispers, “Just me.”

"Anything?" she asks.

"One. Had to dump the body."

Natasha flicks on the hall light and sure enough, Clint’s a mess of dirt and grime and he smells like sweat and the ocean. "Where?"

"Over the cliff. Waves are rough tonight. Won't be recognizable even if it surfaces."

"Jesus," she says, running a hand over her face. Clint disappears into their bedroom and sheds his clothes before washing up in the sink. He scrubs his face and under his nails and Natasha watches him, matching her breaths to his. Finally she mutters, "Better than burying it where Rosie can dig it up I suppose."

Clint slips into clean clothes, not his pajamas like he usually does, but old, worn khakis and a black shirt. "You want first watch?" he asks.

Natasha grimaces. "That's something I never thought I'd hear you say again."

"Yeah, well . . . " he snags his pillow from the bed.

"Where are you going?"

He gestures down the hall to Rosie's room. "I can't. Not tonight, not after . . . I need to hear her breathing."

Nat nods. "And I need to hear you both. Just bring her here please."

Clint smiles and replaces his pillow. “Sure thing, Momma.” He stops to press a kiss to her cheek on his way out of the room.

Natasha threads her hand into the collar of his shirt and yanks him closer, turning her head to press her lips to his. It’s long and lingering and filled with a completely different kind of passion. One that’s been long buried. _I love you. You’re not allowed to die._ But also, _we can let anything happen to her._

When they break apart Clint slips down the hall, returning a moment later with Rosie cradled in his arms. She stirs when he places her on the bed, shuffling her to the middle.

Natasha strokes her hair and breathes in her scent. "Sleep, baby," she whispers.

. . .

Morning brings a new set of challenges. They’re both exhausted because they haven’t been this sleep deprived since leaving SHIELD.

Also, there’s a seven year old girl who still expects to go to school and see her friends and would like her Momma to braid her hair today. Two braids. Not one. And they have to be even.

Natasha hums in agreement as she pours her coffee, eyes flicking up to the window every so often. It’s been quiet overnight. But that doesn’t mean anything. They both know that.

"Clint," Natasha says suddenly, turning and eyeing the knife in his hand. The one that currently balances on the edge of his fingertips, flipping back and forth (a nervous twitch) above Rosie's hand.

Rosie watches him too, something sharp in her expression, just on the edge of fear.

Clint softens instantly, breaking out of his reverie, sparing Natasha a glance before quirking his lips for Rosie's benefit. "Sorry, sweets," he says. He bends and presses a kiss into her hair. "Eat your breakfast."

He peels the rest of her apple with the knife, cutting it up into pieces on her plate before dropping the blade into the sink on his way across the kitchen. He reaches for the coffee pot and downs his own mug.

The day happens much the same as the one before. Clint scopes out Rosie’s school, waiting for the day to end, and Natasha pours through documents, old and new; Steve calls and offers to bring in reinforcements, but they decline because they won’t bring this fight here. Not to this little town.

Clint comes home with Rosie at the end of the day and there’s a new SUV following them.

That night Clint comes to her while she’s sitting in the den with Rosie, asleep against her thighs much like the night before. It’s too dangerous to move her right now.

"Unpack the basement."

"Clint  . . ."

"It's too close now,” he whispers.

Natasha nods. "I know." And she does. With every fibre of her being she knows. They can’t stay here.

"We leave tonight,” Clint says. “Everything."

Her breath hitches and her hand folds across her stomach because it's something out of a nightmare. Having to erase themselves.

But she does, starting first by unearthing the trunks from the basement. The ones packed with their weapons. The ones packed with their pasts.

Next she takes the essentials. Cash. ID. Enough clothes to get them all through.

She passes the black and white photo of them on the side table by their bed. They’re passed out on a picnic blanket. Clint’s got his arms around her and Rosie’s splayed over them both, grinning with two missing front teeth.

Natasha smiles, choking on tears. Then she breaks the frame and unfurls the picture, slipping it into her pocket. There are other things she wants to take. Memories and mementos and she doesn't know how to do this anymore. Some things from before are ingrained in her forever. Some things she thought had faded. At least, they started to. It's been so long now and leaving everything behind feels like losing a part of her soul. Seven years in the making.

When she’s finished she meets Clint in the hall outside the den. He’s hauled in gasoline from the garage and she can already smell it soaking into the furniture.

Clint presses his hand to her cheek and she leans into the touch. But only for a second. Then she pulls herself together.

“Time to go,” he says.

She nods and goes to retrieve the last, if not the most important thing.

Rosie’s still asleep, tucked up on the couch under a blanket. Natasha leans over and puts her lips against her forehead, whispering words to bring her out of sleep.

Rosie grumbles and reaches up, wrapping her arms around Natasha’s neck in a vice, seizing her muscles in that way only children can. It's grounding more than anything and Natasha breathes in that scent. Ocean and brine and strawberry shampoo. She wonders if it'll change now. Of course it will. Everything will. She strokes Rosie’s hair back, swallowing the choked emotion. This isn't what she wanted for Rosie. This kind of life. Running and hiding. Always looking over your shoulder for the next strike.

But it won’t always be like that. They’ll end it. Her and Clint, like they do everything else, together.

. . .

The tower isn’t exactly new to Rosie. Neither are the Avengers, though to her they’re just a bunch of Aunts and Uncles.

Rosie’s visited before, but she was smaller then, probably can’t remember it all that well.

She’s spent most of her time in Maine and when there were visits these last few years the guys always came to them.

So, naturally, Rosie spends a good ten minutes inside Avengers tower with her jaw open.

The elevator stops on the meeting room floor and Natasha and Clint step out.

Rosie stands between them, fingers entwined in their belt loops.

Steve and Sharon are there to greet them. There’s hugging and whispered words. Even more that pass in silent code because of Rosie. And finally Steve drops to his knees, arms held open expectantly.

Rosie flies into the embrace and giggles as Steve picks her up, tossing her into the air and catching her the way Clint might have done when she was three.

"C’mon kid,” he says, hiking her up on his hip, “let's go see if Uncle Bucky's home."

. . .

Later that night, when everything’s been set in order for the coming weeks (they’ve finally got a lead on a shadowed version of the Red Room that’s popped up), Clint and Nat sit curled up on one of the guest beds together. "The tower's the safest place for her. Stark has this thing fortified like a bunker."

"I know,” Natasha sighs. “I just don't want to leave her.”

“She’s got Steve and Bucky to keep her occupied. She’ll be fine.  And you heard Stark. One phone call from you and he’ll plop her in a suit until we get back. Indestructible.”

Clint tips her chin up with his finger, trying to get her to smile.

“We haven't left her since she was a baby,” Natasha whispers and he can feel the words on his lips. Feel the weight of them against his face.

"Then let's go get this done so we can come back, okay?"

She nods, resigned, leaning her head against his shoulder. His hand folds between her shoulder blades and she lets out a puff of air. He was always steadier than her. Always had been. A good man in a storm and lord knows she was the worst kind.

After the worst of her fears have been assuaged by Clint’s distracting lips, and hands, and fingers and well . . . he whispers, "Need some help crawling into your cat suit? I think it's been a while."

Natasha laughs, rolling them over to pin him to the bed. "I think I'll manage. If I recall correctly you were only useful at peeling it off. You should take a look at your bow, though; make sure you still got it. I hear those muscles atrophy after a few years."

"Darlin, my aim is fine."

Natasha chuckles against his ear, “That’s not how it happened a few minutes ago.”


End file.
